


And if I'm on fire, you'll be made of ashes, too

by ViolettaValery



Category: Alex Rider (TV 2020), Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: Alan Blunt gets what he deserves, Emotional Manipulation, Eventual Happy Ending, Hostage Situations, M/M, MI6 is a crime against humanity, POV Outsider, Rough Sex, Yassen Gregorovich Lives, implied Julia Rothman/Yassen Gregorovitch (past)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:22:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25940563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ViolettaValery/pseuds/ViolettaValery
Summary: Alex decides he's had enough of MI6.Yassen agrees.
Relationships: Alex Rider & Wolf, Derek Smithers/Wolf, Yassen Gregorovich/Alex Rider
Comments: 29
Kudos: 129





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Taylor Swift, because of course it is. 
> 
> I'm a notoriously slow writer and I only have this vaguely planned out, so no idea how regularly installments will be posted.

Alex Rider is a source of perpetual guilt to Wolf.

There are so many things he’ll never forgive himself for.

There’s the test they had him put Alex through, when they first “recruited” him, though Wolf suspects there was less recruiting and more blackmailing. Why else would a terrified kid (and Alex _had_ been terrified, however well he’d hidden it or used it against Wolf) agree to a risky mission (and it _was_ a risky mission, whatever Blunt said)?

Alex returns from Point Blanc, looking older than his sixteen years and haunted. Like he’d seen death and been unable to forget it, and Wolf spends the entire night awake, tossing restlessly. He should’ve never let Alex go on that mission. Not that it was up to him, but he should’ve done _something,_ threatened publicity, found Blunt’s pressure point and pressed. Anything other than blindly following orders, because if he stood by and let it happen, wasn’t he complicit?

(“There’s nothing you could have done,” Smithers says matter-of-factly when he voices his concerns. Wolf knows he’s right, but guilt doesn’t listen to reason).

Wolf had tried to put a comforting hand on Alex’s shoulder when he returned from France, offering the reassuring touch of a comrade after a harrowing ordeal.

Alex had flinched. He’s recovered quickly, realizing it was Wolf and allowing the touch, but the sight is burned into Wolf’s brain.

That’s another thing he can add to the list of his unforgivable sins.

Then, Alex develops a crush on him.

It would be adorable, Alex flashing those puppy eyes at him when he thinks Wolf can’t see, except that when Wolf closes his eyes he can still see Alex flinching from him. Not to mention, the age difference, the fact that after his brushes with death, the loneliness and isolation of his mission, Alex is doubtless seeking someone, anyone, to fill the void.

(“Puppy love,” Smithers says, smiling fondly. “Desperation,” Wolf replies.)

Alex gets over the crush, but he doesn’t stop going on missions, and he comes back each time covered in cuts, bruises – or worse. And each time, he looks more haunted, older. He’s being broken down and worn away by his life, and there’s nothing Wolf can do.

Then _it_ happens. Yassen Gregorovich comes into the picture, and he takes Alex hostage.

Wolf will never be able to forgive himself for that, either. Or for what happens after that.

………..

Yassen’s in a building with a bomb and every intent of setting it off. Blunt decides to send Alex in, because for some reason unknown to them, Yassen has always stayed his hand when it comes to Alex. Wolf doesn’t understand his strange soft spot for this boy. Blunt probably doesn’t either, but he’s not above exploiting it.

Wolf argues against it, naturally, but the head of MI6 overrules him. They send Alex in, unarmed, to talk Yassen down.

The next thing they know, Alex appears at the door of the building. He looks nervous but unharmed.

Then they see the gun being held against his head.

Beside him, Mrs. Jones swears colorfully. He didn’t think she knew words like that.

The last thing Wolf sees is Alex looking apologetic before Yassen shoves him in a car and they disappear.

The ransom demand comes the next day, and they all let out a collective sigh of relief. It’s for a hefty sum, but it also means Yassen didn’t shoot Alex the moment he’d gotten to safety.

Blunt doesn’t even blink at the amount of money asked for. They may not negotiate with terrorists on paper, but in practice, Blunt is unwilling to give up his most valuable agent. Wolf imagines that there’s some underhanded shuffling around of money, or perhaps even a special fund for these sorts of situations. Who knows? It’s above his security clearance. All he knows is, Blunt wires the money, and they get texted a location. A house somewhere in [].

They send Wolf and the rest of K-Unit in, armed and armored. It’s unnecessary, because there’s only Alex in the room, and Wolf’s heart freezes in his chest at the sight of him.

He’s unconscious and naked, only a thin sheet giving him a modicum of privacy, his wrist chained to the headboard of a bed. The sheets are rumpled, making no secret of what happened before they showed up, and the bruises on Alex’s wrists and throat only serve to confirm it.

Wolf had thought the sight of Alex flinching from him would be burned into his brain for the rest of his life, but this? He’ll have nightmares about this until the end of his days.

He knows he’ll never forgive himself for this.

They shake Alex awake, and he blinks open sleepy eyes, then groans. “Wolf?” he asks groggily.

“You’re safe.” He puts a reassuring hand on Alex, and this time, at least, Alex doesn’t flinch.

Somehow, they find him clothes – he’s wearing Wolf’s jacket against the cold London rain as they walk out – and take him to a secure location. Turns out there’s a whole complex beneath the Royal & General Bank, and they put Alex in one of the rooms.

But Wolf snaps, finally _snaps,_ when Alex sits down across from him in the mess hall. They’ve found him some clothes, but they’re too big, and he’s had to roll up the sleeves, which leave the bruises visible. The collar doesn’t entirely hide them either. But what’s worse is that Alex looks _drained._ There’s dark bags under his eyes and Wolf wonders if Yassen even let him get any sleep in between –

He can’t even think it.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, though he knows none of the possible answers will be good.

Alex shrugs. “I’ve been better.”

And Wolf doesn’t know what to say to that. He hasn’t been trained for this. Interrogation, fighting, survival, all of those are in his arsenal. But the comfort that comes after? He has no idea where to start.

He reaches out, taking Alex’s hand in his. He feels Alex’s hand twitch, but he doesn’t pull away. His eyes are glassy, staring off into space.

“I’m here, if you need anything,” he says.

The words seem to startle him.

“Thanks, Wolf,” he says, but the words sound automatic.

And that’s when Wolf realizes he has to take matters into his own hands. He’s let this go on for too long, now, unconscionably. But he can try to make up for that at least a little bit.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why yes, I borrowed a scene from Killing Eve. Gold star for anyone who figures out which one. 
> 
> Unbeta'd and I'm super tired, so if I made any dumb mistakes please point them out to me.

_Eight Months Ago_

“They’ll only keep using you,” Yassen murmurs as they lie together, sweaty in their post-coital embrace. Yassen’s fingers trace the sharp line of a scar on his neck, a souvenir of a sniper’s bullet grazing him in Australia that mirror’s Yassen’s own. “How much longer will you let them?”

They’d, inevitably, fallen into bed together. Or, at least, it seemed inevitable to Alex. He and Yassen ran across each other with uncanny frequency, and Yassen’s continued refusal to kill him, no matter how many of Scorpia’s plans Alex destroyed, created an undeniable intimacy. Couple that with the adrenaline, close brushes with death, the loneliness of their line of work, and the human ache for a connection with a kindred soul, and was it really so surprising that they ended up here, tangled up in the sheets and each other in Yassen’s hotel suite?

“As if Scorpia isn’t using you,” Alex retorts, and Yassen acknowledges that with a nod of the head.

“I’ve been thinking of retiring,” he admits. “I could do that, comfortably.”

“Would they let you?” Alex asks. He knows what happened when Max Grendel tried to retire.

“Yes. I’ve ensured it,” Yassen says enigmatically, and Alex doesn’t press.

“And I suppose you want me to run off with you?” he says instead.

Yassen shrugs. “You don’t have to throw away your life for me, Alex. But don’t throw it away for them, either. You deserve better.”

“You don’t think I’ve tried?”

Yassen brushes the hair off his forehead, infinitely gentle. “I’m sure you have. And one of these days, you’ll succeed. I’m sure of it. You just have to want it enough.”

Alex thinks about that as he falls asleep in Yassen’s arms.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to leave – he does. He’d never wanted to be a spy. But always, they found a way to drag him back. He’d long ago stopped resisting. There was no point. Better to use that energy on survival. And, maybe, one day, he’d get too old to be useful to them.

Or too broken.   
  


_Six Months Ago_

The club is unremarkable – strobing lights, pulsing music, and overpriced, neon-colored cocktails. The only indication that he isn’t in England is that everything is written in Cyrillic.

Alex leans on the bar, watching his target in the dirty mirror behind it. Sergey Lushenko lounges on a couch in the VIP area. He’s at least in his fifties, looking thoroughly out of place among the dancing twenty-somethings (and some teenagers, because unlike England, no one checks IDs here. Alex hadn’t even needed a fake). Then again, that was part of the appeal for Lushenko, which is why Alex has been sent here. Lushenko has a type, and he fits it.

He’s so focused on the target that he doesn’t notice the figure that appears silently beside him, clad, as always, in black, and places a hand on his shoulder.

Yassen. 

“Get _off_ me,” he hisses, but Yassen doesn’t, forcing Alex to spin around and attempt to jab the needle intended for Lushenko into him. But Yassen is quicker yet, catching his wrist.

They stay frozen for a moment, eyes locked.

Yassen lets go, and Alex lowers the syringe.

“Now the question is,” Yassen drawls as he runs his eyes up and down Alex slowly. “Why is it that you don’t want your hands on me? You weren’t so reluctant last time.”

Alex does his best not to let his eyes stray to his target. He licks his lips, shifting under the weight of Yassen’s gaze.

“Unless…,” Yassen continues pensively. “You’re hoping to catch the eye of that bastard over there, and you can’t have him thinking you’re taken.”

Alex sighs, staring straight ahead. The bartender pours the shot he’d ordered, and he downs it. He doesn’t normally drink, but for this mission, he’s going to need liquid courage. Several shots of it.

“What do they have on you this time, to make you agree to a honeypot mission?” Yassen wonders aloud.

“Does it matter?” he asks wearily, signaling the bartender for another shot. “I don’t have a choice, and you’re not helping.”

“England’s valiant defenders,” Yassen says scathingly. “Sending a teenage boy to seduce a man three times his age.”

“You’re more than twice my age, and that didn’t stop you,” Alex retorts.

“I didn’t force you,” Yassen points out quietly.

Alex deflates. Ironically, Yassen’s the only one who had ever given him a choice. It should make him angry, but his anger at MI6’s manipulation has long petered out into a drawn-out numbness. He can’t find it in himself to feel the fire of it anymore.

He downs the second shot.

“What do they want with him, then?” Yassen asks.

He isn’t drinking, Alex notices.

Alex turns to him, searching his face for any clue as to why Yassen is interested.

“You’re not his bodyguard, are you?” The possibility dawns on him much too late, blinded as he’d been by the relief of seeing Yassen.

He’d be thoroughly fucked if Yassen stood between him and the target.

Well, fucked, and not in the fun way that he’d enjoyed last time he saw Yassen.

But, to his relief, Yassen says, “No, I’m not.”

He nods. “They want him, unconscious, so they can take him in for questioning. And the contents of his hard drive.”

“Oh, is that all?” Yassen says. “Perhaps they would also like – what is it you English say? A unicorn?”

Alex shrugs. When had they ever given him an easy mission?

“He has rooms upstairs,” Yassen says. “I assume you have a way to break in and acquire his files, yes?”

“Yes, although preferably he’d take me up there himself – “ Based on their intelligence, Lushenko tended to drop his guard after sex. Unfortunately for Alex, though he also pities whatever poor soul had acquired that intelligence in the first place.

“Go get the files. I will take care of him.”

Alex stares at him.

“What?”

“Go acquire the files,” Yassen says with exaggerated patience. “I will acquire him.”

The relief hits him faster than the alcohol did, a kind of sagging weightlessness.

“Thank you,” he says, but Yassen’s already walking away.   
  


_Three Months Ago_

It’s just sheer coincidence, really. He’s in Mexico City for a mission. The usual sort: a megalomaniac intent on blowing up the world, MI6 insisting being a teenager is the perfect cover, it turning out _not_ to be the perfect cover, and – in this particular case – an attempt to stop a missile attack while flying by the seat of his pants.

And then he sees Ash. He’s following a target through the stuffy, crowded streets, the sun beating down and sweat making his shirt stick to his back, and at first, he thinks it’s the heat and exhaustion and an uncanny resemblance. But no, it’s definitely Ash, buying a pack of cigarettes.

Alex freezes. Ash hasn’t noticed him. He could –

But no. Before he even starts running through the possibilities, he knows he can’t pursue any of them. He has a mission and thousands of lives to save, and everything else – his own needs, his own wants – come second. Because don’t they always?

“Ash is alive,” Alex announces when he arrives at Liverpool street for his usual debrief. He’d expected to drop the news like a bombshell, but neither Blunt nor Mrs. Jones seem surprised.

“You knew,” he breathes. “Why didn’t you tell me? Did he escape?”

Mrs. Jones shifts uncomfortably, glancing at Blunt, whose face is, as usual, about as expressive as a brick wall.

“You have to understand, Alex, he had information that we needed. Information that has saved lives, possibly thousands of lives – “

“ _You let him go?”_

“We made an immunity deal in exchange for the information that he had. It has proven to be quite useful.”

“He killed my parents!” Alex practically shouts. Blunt flinches, but only, Alex thinks, because that kind of tone is unseemly in Blunt’s orderly office. “One of them was _your_ agent.”

“And Mr. Gregorovitch killed your uncle,” Blunt replies calmly. “Yet you seemed to be on quite good terms with him in Moscow. Oh yes,” he continues at Alex’s shocked expression. “We know about that. Lushenko told us you had help getting him into custody. Did you think we wouldn’t find out?”

“He has never denied what he is or what he’s done,” Alex fires back. “You pretend you’re different from the people you take down, but you’re just the same. The only difference is that at least he’s honest about it.”

He stands up.

“Don’t bother calling,” he says. “I’m not working for you again. We’re finished.”

They don’t try to stop him leaving.

“He’s angry,” Blunt remarks after the door slams shut. He looks affronted by the very sound. Under his tenure, doors were decidedly not slammed in Liverpool Street.

“You think?” Mrs. Jones retorts.

Blunt frowns at her. His number two has never spoken to him with such insolence.

“This is the man who killed his parents. We should have at least told him.”

“What good would it have done?”

“Ignorance is never bliss in our line of work, Alan.”

Blunt shrugs. “It was a necessary exchange, and I won’t apologize for it. But perhaps we should give him some time to cool off before we call him again? A couple of months at least, I should think. He’ll be over his anger by then.”   
  


_Ten Weeks Ago_

Alex spends the next two weeks alternating between fuming and imagining ways to ruin Blunt’s life. He should have expected something like this, really. He knew the kind of people MI6 was made up of. Or at least, he thought he did. But this went beyond the pale of anything he’d imagined.

He feels suddenly so completely, helplessly out of depth in this world, made up of people who somehow still manage to surprise his jaded self with their underhanded antics.

He can’t take them on alone, he realizes. If he wants out of this, he needs help.

And so, two weeks later, he marches into the Royal & General Bank and demands to see Blunt.

“I want access to my money. My inheritance, and the rest of it,” he says without preamble when he’s shown into Blunt’s office. The irony of walking into the supposed Royal & General Bank for money isn’t lost on him.

“And why in the world do you suddenly need so much money, Alex? You’re not in _trouble,_ are you?” Blunt asks.

“That’s none of your business.” He has to exert effort not to snarl at Blunt. “You treat me like an adult whenever you need me, sending me on missions that could get me killed. So I think it’s about time you treated me like an adult in other ways, not a child to be given an allowance. If I can get shot at, I can spend my own money.”

“You aren’t thinking of doing something rash like taking the money and running off, are you, Alex?”

“Why? Am I not free to leave the country?” he challenges.

“You’ve made many enemies in this line of work,” Blunt says. “It is prudent for you to stay here, where we can keep an eye on you.”

“You mean, where you can use me when you need me,” Alex retorts.

Blunt doesn’t dignify that with a reply. Instead, it’s Mrs. Jones who tries to placate him.

“We just want to know that you’re safe, Alex.”

“Save it,” he says. “And don’t worry, I don’t have any plans to take the money and run. I wouldn’t even make it through passport control, would I?”

“Then I see no reason for you not to have access to your inheritance,” Blunt says magnanimously. “I will arrange it.”

Alex doesn’t bother thanking him before he walks out.   
  


_Two Months Ago_

“The target is Alex Rider,” Julia Rothman practically purrs. They stroll along one of the few quays in Venice, looking, for all the world, like a pair of lovers in the dusk. Certainly that was Rothman’s intention, though Yassen had found his mind drifting to blond hair and a slender frame. He’d very much like for someone else to be in Rothman’s place.

He shakes the thought off. What did he think, that Alex would run away with him and they’d travel the world, seeing the sights and kissing beneath every major landmark? It was a fifteen-year-old’s naïve fantasy, though not the kind either he or Alex had ever had the luxury of indulging.

But now, all that goes flying out of his mind as his blood chills in his very veins at Rothman’s next words: “They requested you specifically.”

He stills.

“I thought we had a truce with MI6,” Yassen says carefully. “We don’t touch Alex Rider and they don’t ruin our reputation.” He avoids mentioning Rothman’s involvement in that particular failure. He’s been on the receiving end of her temper far too many times. He’d thought a Scorpia board member would have more self-control – after all, wasn’t what she had impressed so thoroughly upon him during those late nights he had reluctantly spent with her?

“This is true, but in this case, Rider isn’t _our_ target. He’s our client’s. We’re simply providing a service.”

“A fine distinction,” Yassen ventures.

“Yes,” Rothman agrees. “But the board has voted. They’re willing to take the risk.”

All Yassen can think is that someone wants Alex dead. Someone who was willing to pay an exorbitant amount of money.

Alex needs his protection.

“I’ll depart immediately,” he says.

“Not quite yet,” Rothman chides softly. “I think you can put off leaving until tomorrow, and spend the night with me?”

It’s not a request, and Yassen forces himself through the endless dinner, the after-meal drinks, and – the rest of it.

….

The doorbell surprises Alex. He opens the door to find Yassen on his doorstep, leaning insouciantly against one of the porch pillars.

“Hello, Alex,” he greets politely. “May I come in?”

“MI6 has this place watched,” he warns.

Yassen shrugs. “I took care of it.”

He doesn’t ask what that means. He’s always known Yassen to be meticulous. If he says he took care of it, Alex has no reason to doubt it. Instead, Alex holds the door open for Yassen, then follows him into the kitchen.

“Drink?” he offers.

“Please,” Yassen says. “Pour us both one?”

Alex reaches for the vodka – high shelf stuff, left over from Ian – and pours them both a generous portion. Yassen has already settled at his kitchen table, looking thoroughly at home in his kitchen, and Alex sits down across from him.

“So,” he ventures as Yassen sips his vodka. “Why are you here?”

“To kill you,” Yassen says without missing a beat.

Alex raises his eyebrows.

“You’ve never been able to kill me before,” he points out.

“I’ve never had direct orders to do so before. I do now.” He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a bottle of pills, sliding it across the table to Alex. “Take three,” he instructs.

“Or what?” Alex challenges.

Yassen pulls out his gun and points it at Alex. “Or I shoot you in the head,” he replies. “Your choice, really.”

Alex regards him for several seconds. He reaches for the pills, emptying out three and washing them down with alcohol one by one. Then he leans back in the chair and waits.

The silence presses heavy against them. Yassen stares at him, that intense gaze pressing even harder against him.

“So, how long do I have?” he asks to break that silence.

“Your pulse hasn’t even increased,” Yassen observes. “Are you really so unconcerned with the prospect of your own death?”

“You’re not going to kill me, Yassen,” Alex says. “These are, what, sugar pills?” He nods at the gun. “And you haven’t even turned the safety off.”

Yassen lowers the gun.

Alex smirks.

“See, I knew you wouldn’t be able to kill me,” he says triumphantly.

“You knew,” Yassen repeats. Then, after a second: “You are referring to more than the last few minutes, aren’t you? You put the hit out.”

“Yeppppp,” Alex agrees. “I needed to contact you, and you never gave me your number.” He pouts, ever so much the young boy whose crush won’t give him the time of day.

“You are playing with fire,” Yassen says, his voice now dangerously calm. “What if you were wrong?”

Alex shrugs. “Figured there was a one in six chance you’d kill me. Pretty good odds. Better than Russian roulette. And if you did, well, that’s another way to get out, I suppose.”

Yassen pales visibly.

“What happened, Alex?”

He explains to Yassen what he’s discovered about Ash.

“He killed John Rider,” Yassen confirms, and Alex realizes at that moment that Yassen didn’t – know. “And he attempted to arrange your death as well.”

Alex nods. He wonders which of those two crimes Yassen finds more reprehensible.

“I’ll kill him. Painfully.”

Alex doesn’t protest. He’s wanted someone dead before, but he hadn’t been able to go through with killing Mrs. Jones. But if Yassen is offering to do it for him, he won’t stop him.

“I want out,” Alex says. “Out of MI6, out of this life. Just – away. Take me away, Yassen. Please.”

Yassen rises and walks over to Alex to take his hand. “Are you sure about this? You have to be sure, because there’s no going back.”

“I’m sure,” Alex says. “Save me. Please.”

“Always,” Yassen whispers. He leans forward for their softest kiss yet, and Alex kisses back.

They spend the night in Alex’s bed, in the childhood home he’d inherited along with a bloody legacy he never wanted.   
  


_Present Day_

Yassen sets up the bomb. As predicted, Blunt sends Alex in.

“I hope you’re not having second thoughts,” Yassen remarks wen Alex appears. He hefts a gun in his hand, and this time, Alex notes, the safety is off.

“If I were, the fact that he sent me into a building with a bomb and a contract killer would’ve gotten rid of them,” Alex says.

“Good. Are you ready?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

Yassen nods. He pecks Alex quickly on the lips – and then puts the gun to his head.


	3. Interlude

“That is the carrot,” he murmurs. “There is also a stick. Should you try to…retaliate….for my choice to depart, rest assured that I will take you down with me. You know I can.”

“Mmm.” She tilts her head, allowing his lips better access to the curve of her throat. “You know how I love when you talk dirty.”

“In six months, MI6 will be in shambles,” he promises. “If Scorpia has any plans that might benefit from their lack of attention, I suggest you take advantage of this to execute them.”

She turns in his arms until they’re facing each other.

“Then I suppose this is goodbye.” She pouts theatrically. “I’ll miss you, Yassen.”

“I’m sure you’ll find a suitable replacement for me,” he says. “To provide _all_ the services I did.”

She traces his lips with her perfectly manicured hand. Her nails are blood-red, like her lips. “No one could truly replace you, but I shall endeavor to try.” She slips out of his arms and steps back. “Goodbye, Yassen.”

“Goodbye, Julia,” he says softly.

“Oh, and Yassen?” she calls after him.

He throws a look backward over his shoulder at her slim figure, silhouetted against the setting sun.

“Good luck.”

He smiles and says nothing as he leaves.

He has a teenage boy to thoroughly defile, and he can’t _wait._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why yes, I'm the asshole that adds a 400-word interlude just when the fic is getting to the good stuff. I have no regrets.


End file.
